


all over paris i'm abandoning myself

by marvel_middleearth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Grantaire lives y'all, I think I went a little overboard with the angst, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Moving on from grief, Not Canon Compliant, but it's from Grantaire's POV so are we really all that surprised?, but oh well, it's mostly canon compliant except that Grantaire lives too, probably too much description of Enjolras, tons of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvel_middleearth/pseuds/marvel_middleearth
Summary: Grantaire wakes up with blood on his hands.He’s lying on the floor, he realises, the wooden floorboards pressing roughly against his cheek. His chest is aching and he doesn’t know why. There’s no bottle in his hands, and as he slowly flicks his gaze around the room, something doesn’t seem right: the smell of gunpowder lingers in the air, and the furniture is broken and scattered. A carbine lies, discarded, on the floor.The world is very, very still.Grantaire survives the barricade, but it feels like he's left half of himself behind with the rest of Les Amis, and he doesn't know if he can move on.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	all over paris i'm abandoning myself

**Author's Note:**

> My first contribution to the Les Mis fandom *throws tricolour confetti*
> 
> For Jen, who gave me the idea after I threw random song lyrics at her hoping for fic ideas. I hope this lives up to your expectations!
> 
> Title from "Dernière Danse" by Indila.
> 
> EDIT 28/2/2021: this fic /used/ to be "Dans tout Paris je m'abandonne", but it felt too long and convoluted, so I've just shortened it to the translation. Just an FYI in case anyone was wondering. You probably weren't, but yeah. Anyways. :)

Grantaire wakes up with blood on his hands.

He’s lying on the floor, he realises, the wooden floorboards pressing roughly against his cheek. His chest is aching and he doesn’t know why. There’s no bottle in his hands, and as he slowly flicks his gaze around the room, something doesn’t seem right: the smell of gunpowder lingers in the air, and the furniture is broken and scattered. A carbine lies, discarded, on the floor.

The world is very, very still. 

There is morning light pouring through the window of the Musain, illuminating the room and bouncing off golden curls, a crimson jacket, a tattered tricolour scarf. Grantaire stares at it for a long moment before it hits him.

_ “Long live the Republic! I am one of them.” _

_ The blatant surprise in Enjolras’ expression as he turns his grey-eyed gaze on Grantaire. _

_ The warmth of Enjolras’ hand clasped in his. _

_ A smile fading from dying lips as the muskets fire and drag them both into the dark. _

Grantaire shoots upright, gasping for air, his vision blurred by sudden tears. He doesn’t remember moving but suddenly he’s beside Enjolras, dragging him back through where he’s draped half out of the window and into his lap, his hands flying to cradle the sides of his face. It’s horribly, awfully blank, his eyes closed and the faintest ghost of a smile still tracing his lips, dried blood streaking down his temple.

“Enjolras?” His name is torn from Grantaire’s mouth in a breathless, trembling whisper. He chokes back the sob building in his throat and brushes an errant curl away from Enjolras’ face, his touch gentle and tender. “Enjolras?”

He doesn’t want to believe it, but he knows. He  _ knows,  _ as well as he knows his own name, as well as he knows that he was in love with the man cradled in his arms, that Enjolras is not going to answer him. The echoes of shots that ring in his mind and the blood stains like crimson poppies across his shirtfront are irrefutable proof that Enjolras is dead.

Enjolras is gone, and he’s not coming back.

Grantaire can’t hold back the sobs that are torn raggedly from his throat or the tears that stream down his cheeks like a summer storm, hot and fast and tragic. He clutches Enjolras to his chest and howls his grief into his golden curls, his entire body shaking, because this is  _ Enjolras.  _ This is the man he has lived for, died for, lived for again, the man he swore he’d follow anywhere, the man who held the sun in his soul and the universe in his eyes, and  _ he can’t be dead. _

"Enjolras," he whispers into his curls, lips pressed against his head, his voice ragged and desperate. "Enjolras, please. Please come back to me. I need you, Apollo, I need you, I  _ need you _ ."

Enjolras doesn't move. He's limp in Grantaire's arms, and his shirtfront is horrifyingly damp with blood, and Grantaire closes his eyes against the agony.

_ I should have died with him. _

He doesn't know how long he crouches there, the passage of time marked only by the rise and fall in the sounds of voices from the street below and the gradual change in colour of the light trickling through the window. He's brought back to reality by the sound of boots on wood a few floors below; with the sound comes the distant realisation that he's still a revolutionary, and if he's caught now, here in the Musain with a tattered red flag on the ground behind him and the body of their fallen leader in his arms, he's likely to be shot on sight.

He drags a hand across his eyes in a half-hearted attempt to clear the tears from his cheeks and unwillingly begins to rise to his feet. His heart seems to tear itself in two every time he glimpses Enjolras' unnatural stillness, yet he can't seem to drag his eyes away from him, tracing the shape of his face with his eyes as though he can ingrain his features into his mind forever.

He slowly pulls himself upright, carefully bundling Enjolras into his arms and carrying him over to the window. He lays him down beneath it, arranging him gently so that he looks almost as though he's just fallen asleep, and draping the red flag across him. He deserves this last kindness, and Grantaire hopes Enjolras would be happy to be laid to rest beneath the flag of the cause he had dedicated himself to so wholeheartedly.

He only wishes he could have been beside him in death.

Grantaire kneels beside him to kiss Enjolras' brow once, softly and reverently, before he pulls the end of the flag up to cover his face.

It's goodbye, and Grantaire doesn't want to go.

He turns before he can break down again, taking a deep, trembling breath and forcing his eyes to the doorway. The footsteps are still echoing down below, and he knows deep down that he has to leave.

It turns out that walking away from an angel is almost as hard as watching him fall.

Grantaire leaves, and he doesn't look back.

He never sees Enjolras again.

***

Grantaire doesn’t quite know how he makes it out of the Musain.

Everything is a blur of tears and agonising heartbreak. Halfway down he stumbles across the bodies of more of his friends -- Joly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, sprawled gracelessly across the floorboards in individual pools of rusty crimson. Grantaire’s heart catches in his throat, and he has to brace himself against the wall as he’s stricken dizzy with nausea and horror.

_ No,  _ he thinks wildly.  _ No - it’s not supposed to be like this - Courfeyrac is supposed to be laughing and joking, Combeferre is supposed to be making plans and reading books, Joly is supposed to be falling in love with Bossuet and Musichetta - they’re not supposed to be  _ dead  _ - _

He’d thought that he would have been immune to the heartbreak by now, but it threatens to choke him when he finds the others strewn throughout the streets as he leaves the ruins of the café. Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, amongst the bodies of so many others who fell fighting for freedom; who fell following a curly-haired figure in red, his figure silhouetted in gold, his voice ringing out above the crack of the guns -

Grantaire staggers and nearly falls. His hands are shaking, and he fists them in his sleeves, glancing down as he does so and taking in the sight of the blood stained across his shirtfront. He doesn't know if it's his or not, and right now, he can't really bring himself to care.

He walks away from the bloodshed, away from his fallen friends, away from the wreckage of the barricade which had ignited such excitement in Enjolras' eyes: it's nothing but broken furniture now, like the toys of a child scattered across a cobblestoned floor, and he wonders how they ever thought they could have survived this.

_ You have, _ his mind reminds him bitterly.  _ You survived. _

He doesn't know how he survived, or why, but the universe has something crueller in store for him, apparently.

_ A second chance,  _ a voice whispers in his mind. It sounds a little like Enjolras.  _ A second chance at life, R. Do it for us. Do it for all of us. _

He pushes the thoughts away and walks for the sake of walking, trying to clear his mind, trying to think, but he's drowning in grief. Every step he takes feels painful, as though he's leaving a piece of himself behind him, as though every friend he's lost has fallen with a piece of his heart gripped in their hand.

He doesn't know how much of his heart he has left.

***

Grantaire makes it home, somehow, and he manages to open the door before he collapses, curling up into a ball and sobbing. Everything is too much all at once, and he stares at the wall through tear-blurred eyes. He closes his eyes, trying to lose himself to sleep - anything to forget, anything to bring them back, even if it's only in his dreams - but all he sees, silhouetted against his closed eyelids, are the phantom outlines of Les Amis, as they once were and never will be again.

Sleep feels impossible, so he drags himself to his feet and lets them lead him to the nearest bar. If he can’t lose himself to sleep, he’s determined to drown himself in alcohol, at least until his hands feel less heavy with the weight of phantom blood and the image of Enjolras falling fades from his mind.

Nobody except the bartender dares to come near him. He's covered in blood, his eyes red-rimmed and blotchy from crying, and there's something dark and haunted in his gaze and persuades even the most inclined onlooker to stay away from him. Grantaire grips the wine bottle tightly in his shaking hands and drinks until, finally, the world fades away.

But he doesn't forget. He can't forget.

He's inclined to stay in his apartment for the next few days and not emerge from its secure familiarity, not now and maybe not ever, but something within him is drawn to the streets, and so he walks. Grantaire doesn't care where he's going - although he's memorised the ins and outs of Paris so well, it's hard to get lost - and he doesn't look up. He stares hard at the ground and at his shoes, the toes stained with something that looks horrifyingly like blood and which won't come off, no matter how many hours he scrubs at them. To look up would be to see familiar places, cafés he's visited with Courfeyrac or bars where he's sat with Jehan while the poet scribbles busily in his notebook or squares where Enjolras has made speeches to the people.

What's even worse - and he knows, it has happened - is to look up and think he sees them amongst the passersby. Every balding man resolves themselves into Bossuet, every neatly-tied cravat belongs to Combeferre, every lady's fan is a reminder of Feuilly. He can't even begin to count the number of times his heart has skipped a beat upon sighting a head of blonde hair amongst a sea of black mourning bonnets and hats.

The letdown is like being shot all over again.

***

He's on the streets, about a month after the barricade -  _ a month after he lost his friends, lost the love of his life, lost himself  _ \- and he's watching the cobblestones flit by as usual, this time with a bottle in his hand. The crowd parts around like him waves around a rock; drunks are a common occurrence, and no one pays him much attention as he stumbles between them, lost to his own thoughts.

He isn't sure if it's real at first. He hasn't heard the sound of his own name in a month. He hadn't thought he would hear it again, but someone is shouting his name, and he lifts his head to listen.

_ "Grantaire!" _

He blinks dazedly at the figures hurrying towards him, and manages to catch a glimpse of familiar wayward brown hair and a fiercely-freckled face before he's swept into the tightest hug of his life.

"Marius?" he says hoarsely, his arms pinned to his sides by the force of Marius' embrace.

"Grantaire,  _ Grantaire,  _ it's you!" Marius practically shouts in his ear. "You're alive - oh, God, you're alive, after all this time -"

"Alive," Grantaire echoes dully. "I suppose so."

Marius pulls away slightly, gripping him by the shoulders. God, he looks so thrilled to see him. Grantaire can't begin to fathom why.

"I thought you were dead," he says breathlessly, and Grantaire flinches at his words. "They told me  _ everyone _ was dead - I didn't realise you'd made it out!"

"I didn't realise you'd made it out, either," Grantaire replies, looking him over. Marius' arm is in a sling and his complexion is paler than usual, but if not for the darkness that haunts his eyes behind that starry-eyed gaze, Grantaire would almost have passed him off as fine.

Marius' expression sombres. "I almost didn't. I was shot; I thought I was dead for sure. But someone saved me." His brow wrinkles. "I don't know who, or why, but someone carried me out of the barricade that night. I owe them my life." He glances at Grantaire. "How did you survive?"

Grantaire is bracing himself to answer -  _ whoever thought I was worthy of a second chance was wrong; I should have died with Enjolras - _ when he catches a flash of golden curls over Marius' shoulder. His breath catches in his throat harshly, and his treacherous heart skips a beat.

_ Enjolras - _

The name is on the tip of his tongue, soft and bittersweet, when Marius notices his gaze and turns, his expression brightening ever-so-slightly. "This is Cosette," he introduces, holding out his hand for the woman -  _ a woman, not a man, not a revolutionary leader with a quicksilver tongue  _ \- and leading her towards him. "We're engaged," he adds, and Cosette blushes prettily, and smiles kindly at Grantaire.

"Congratulations," he says numbly. He can't force a smile.

Marius flashes another fond glance at Cosette and Grantaire can't help the flash of jealousy that races through him. He balls his hands into fists and takes a deep, steadying breath as Marius turns back to him, his gaze hesitantly questioning. "Grantaire…" he says tentatively, "um, the rest of Les Amis…did they….?"

Grantaire swallows the lump in his throat. "They're dead," he forces out, and watches Marius' expression crumple with grief. "All of them."

"All of them?" Marius echoes, looking devastated. "Grantaire…I don't know what to say. I -"

"You don't have to say anything," Grantaire cuts him off. "They're dead. Gone. There's nothing we can do." He swipes a tear off his cheek - when had that gotten there? - and takes a deep swig of his bottle. "They're gone, Marius. They -" He swallows the lump rising fast in his throat. "I watched - I watched Enjolras d-die -"

Grantaire normally doesn't take hugs from strangers, but Cosette smells like lavender and her embrace is soft and sweet, and Grantaire wraps his arms around her in return and tries to pretend he's not standing in the middle of the street, looking like a complete idiot as he sobs brokenly into Cosette's arms.

"Where are we going?" he asks between ragged breaths, as Cosette slips one arm around his shoulders and Marius takes his other hand: between them, they begin to guide Grantaire down the street.

"Back to our house, of course," Cosette says, her tone sympathetic but no-nonsense. "We're all we've got. We have to stick together."

Arguing with Cosette seems futile, because although she is significantly shorter than both Grantaire and Marius, she's near unstoppable when her mind is set on something.

The Pontmercy estate is huge, bigger than any house Grantaire has ever seen, and he subtly tries to neaten his waistcoat and flatten down his rowdy curls, although he knows it makes little difference. He's a complete mess, shattered into thousands of tiny pieces like a smashed wine bottle.

Without Les Amis, he doesn't think he knows how to put the pieces back together.

***

Four months after the barricade, Grantaire returns to the Musain.

It's empty. The rubble has been cleared from within, the blood stains long since scrubbed away. A young boy scurries out of the depths of the café and disappears into the streets -  _ it's not Gavroche, it's not Gavroche, calm down, Grantaire, it's not him -  _ and Grantaire is left to walk its familiar halls on his own.

It's….hard, to say the very least. His heart keeps jumping in hope every time he turns a corner, hoping to catch sight of his friends - sitting around a table playing cards, standing beside the unlit fireplace with drinks in their hands - and every shadow seems to manifest itself into the outline of one of the Les Amis.

He lets himself wander the hallways the way he used to, remembering the rooms packed with people, the candlelight that illuminated joyful faces, the singing that had filled the café night after night. He remembers the laughter of Les Amis, and the golden-haired figure who had drawn every gaze in the room as he spoke, promising liberty and justice, looking for all the world like an angel fallen from the stars.

He's lost in thought, but he knows the Musain well enough to recognise where his feet are taking him, and he ascends the stairs slowly, reverently, only lifting his gaze when he reaches the top of the staircase.

The window stares back at him, wide and empty and gaping, and Grantaire's heart skips a beat at the memory of Enjolras sprawled backwards out of it, surrounded by golden light on a morning not so very long ago.

He steps towards the window, his vision blurring at the edges as though he's in a dream. For a moment he hears the echo of gunshots and he flinches, expecting to feel the thud of bullets, but when he spins around the room is still empty, and nothing remains of the revolution besides the memories that linger in his mind.

He turns back towards the window, letting out a shuddering breath as he runs his hand along the windowsill.  _ "Permets-tu?"  _ he whispers into the quiet, tracing the shape of Enjolras' smile into the gathering dust with his fingertips.

_ Grantaire,  _ the silence seems to whisper. It doesn't sound so much like Enjolras anymore. It sounds like shadows, stardust, memories.

"I -" Grantaire begins, his voice soft. It carries in the quiet of the room. "Enjolras - if you're here, somewhere, somehow….I came to say goodbye."

He watches motes of dust twirl in the sunlight, winking and dancing like sparks of molten gold. "I'm sorry I didn't fall with you," he says, and the room seems to let out a soft sigh. It could just be the building settling, but Grantaire chooses to think it's something else. Someone else, maybe; the scattered souls of people left behind. "But I think - I think you were right. I think this is my second chance. And I'm not going to waste it, I promise."

He traces the scar of a bullet hole in the wooden window frame. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I wish you could be here beside me. All of you." He tilts his head upwards as tears start to gather at the corner of his eyes. "But they say that only the good die young, so you must have been the best. I  _ know  _ you were the best," he amends. "You tried to set Paris aflame, and it nearly worked. The embers of revolution are still burning, Enjolras. They won't be put out. I'll make sure of that."

A faint breeze stirs the dust in the corner, and the barest hint of a smile touches the corner of Grantaire's lips. "I'll make sure of that," he repeats softly, and he traces the edges of the windowsill one last time.

"I guess this is goodbye," he murmurs. "Maybe I'll see you all again sometime." He smiles - it's real this time - and a single tear trails down his cheek.

"Goodbye," he whispers.

It turns out that walking away from an angel is almost as hard as watching him fall. But Grantaire has learnt that walking away from the past doesn't mean losing it. Memories glint and gleam in his mind, of a group of people - his friends, his  _ family _ \- a group who nearly became historic. 

Grantaire leaves, and he doesn't look back.

**Author's Note:**

> It's especially important to support each other as we work through these challenging times, and the power of words, and of storytelling, is incredibly powerful. If we can keep inspiring, empowering and supporting each other through the stories we share, we can make it through this. Stay safe, everyone <3
> 
> Thanks for reading :) If you've got time, drop by and leave me a comment, but if you don't, kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
